Chapter 2 Wall Climber

"What do you mean?" I asked.

At this moment, Jackson and Megan returned to the VIP room with Nick in tow.

"That guy is currently walking buck naked to the airport," Nick announced, opening a first aid kit and taking my injured hand in his. His touch was gentle but efficient as he examined the cut. "He'll be on the first flight out of the country."

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Effective."

"Let the pedestrians enjoy a good look at his 'little buddy,'" Jackson snickered, dropping into the plush sofa beside Megan.

"I doubt there's much to see," Megan quipped with a smirk.

Alexander shot her a disapproving glance, and she immediately fell silent, her smile vanishing. She smoothed her skirt nervously and leaned closer to me, watching as Nick worked on my injury.

Nick carefully cleaned my cut with antiseptic. "Emma, this is the third time in as many months you've caused chaos in my bar. My insurance guy is threatening to quit."

"Your renovation is shit quality," I shot back, wincing slightly as the alcohol stung my wound. "Look how your glass door sliced me open. Maybe invest in some that doesn't explode into a million flying daggers?"

"Of course, of course," Nick nodded solemnly, his dark hair falling across his forehead. "Is there any establishment in America that renovates more frequently than New York bars? I should just give you a sledgehammer and let you redesign the place yourself."

I narrowed my eyes at him, and he immediately pressed his lips together, fighting a smile as he wrapped gauze around my wrist.

After finishing the bandage job, Nick stepped back. "Try not to get into any more fights this week, okay? My heart can only take so much stress, and my bank account even less."

"No promises," I muttered, then gestured toward the bar. "Pour me a whiskey, neat. Make it a double."

Nick complied, returning with the amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. I knocked it back in one gulp, feeling the burn travel down my throat and spread warmth through my chest.

"You shouldn't drink alcohol when you're injured," Alexander commented.

I arched an eyebrow at him. "It's just a scratch. Nothing I can't handle." I slid the empty glass toward Nick for a refill.

Nick laughed, reaching for the top-shelf whiskey. "Alex, normal people avoid alcohol when injured, but our Hurricane here actually needs a few drinks to calm her fire."

"You can't have liquor without food," Jackson interjected, clapping his hands together. "Right, Nick?"

Nick nodded and motioned to a server. "Bring out the works for our special guests."

Minutes later, they brought out a spread of appetizers—fried calamari, bruschetta, stuffed mushrooms—followed by perfectly seared steaks, garlic mashed potatoes, and grilled asparagus that made my stomach rumble. I hadn't realized how hungry I was after my dissertation defense and the impromptu ass-kicking session.

As we ate, I turned to Megan. "So I haven't had a chance to ask—how did you get together with that guy?"

Megan shifted in her seat, twirling a strand of her hair. "He's a classmate who's been pursuing me for about six months. I finally agreed to go out with him yesterday." She glanced at me apologetically. "I would have told you, but you've been locked in your apartment finishing your dissertation defense. I didn't want to distract you."

She turned to Alexander, who was cutting his steak. "Uncle Alex, we hadn't even held hands yet, so don't worry."

"I'm not the one who would've gotten hurt," he replied coolly, not looking up from his plate.

Megan frowned and turned her attention back to me. "How's your hand doing? That looks like a nasty cut."

"It's fine," I shrugged.

"This little scratch is nothing for Emma," Jackson chimed in, mouth half-full. "You should see what she looks like after karate and MMA training."

"You guys know each other well?" Alexander asked, glancing between us.

Jackson nodded, swallowing his food. "We're childhood friends. I'm five years older, but we went to the same private school. My driver would pick her up too." He grinned at me. "She's been fighting since kindergarten. Even sixth graders wouldn't mess with her when she was in first grade."

"Neither Nick nor I could beat her in a fight," he continued, pointing his fork at me. "And if we tried to stop her from fighting others, she'd just beat us up too. We learned early to either help her or stay out of her way."

"Don't make Emma sound so terrible," Megan jumped to my defense. "If it weren't for her, I don't know what would've happened to me. During high school, some thugs cornered me after school. Things were about to get ugly when Emma happened to walk by and stepped in. That's how we became friends."

Nick nodded, refilling our wine glasses. "Exactly. Ninety-five percent of the trouble she causes is to protect someone else. People spread rumors about her being a spoiled brat, but only those who know her or witness what actually happens understand the truth."

I glanced at my watch and swore under my breath. "It's late. I should get going."

I parked my purple Ferrari a block away from home. No way I'd risk waking up the whole house with that engine roar. The midnight air was crisp against my skin as I approached the North estate. Slipping past the guards with a finger to my lips—they knew better than to alert my parents—I headed straight for the drainpipe closest to my second-floor bedroom and began to climb with practiced ease.

Halfway up, I heard a familiar chuckle. Glancing over, I saw Grandpa and Grandma North standing on the balcony, watching me with amused expressions.

"Why climb the drainpipe when we have perfectly good stairs?" Grandpa called out, his voice booming across the yard. "Been fighting again? Your knuckles always give you away. Your parents are waiting in your room, by the way." Grandma elbowed him to be quiet, but it was too late.

Shit. I considered sliding back down, but my parents had already appeared at my bedroom window, alerted by Grandpa's announcement.

"Emma North, get up here right now!" Dad called out.

I clung to the pipe, contemplating my escape options.

"What time do you call this?" Dad demanded, crossing his arms over his monogrammed pajamas. "You're twenty-three years old with a Master's degree from NYU in Computer Security. It's time you found a real job and saw what you've actually learned. No more of this staying out all hours doing God knows what."

Mom shook her head, her blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders. "She just graduated, Richard. There's no rush. Let her stay home with us a while longer. She deserves a break after all that studying."

Dad snorted. "From kindergarten to her graduate degree, when has she not lived at home? She insisted on attending NYU but refused to stay in the campus apartments, coming home every single day. We bought her that penthouse in the Upper East Side, and I don't think she's even looked at it once."

"If she wants to live at home, let her," Mom countered. "When she gets married and stops coming home, you'll be the one crying into your morning coffee wondering where your little girl went."

"Who would marry her?" Dad muttered, eyeing the fresh bandage on my wrist.

Mom grabbed his ear, twisting it sharply. "What did you just say? Our daughter has looks, education, and wealth. What more could anyone want in a wife?"